


Affirmation

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-28
Updated: 2002-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Travellers have returned from their adventure, but not unchanged. Warnings: horror, angst, slash (M/P)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first M/P.

Bag End was dark and silent but for the soft _scratch scratch_ coming from Frodo's study. That and the harsh closeness of Pippin's breath.

"Frodo?" he called hesitantly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. Grit and dust ground into his feet, and he grimaced at the sensation as he began to walk slowly down the darkened hall - the polished wood floor was filthy. A shard of white light sliced into the hallway ahead of him, and he squinted into the kitchen - empty but for the thick moonlight streaming in through the window - before continuing further into the darkness towards the back rooms of Bag End.

"Frodo?" he called again, straining forward to see through the tense darkness. "Are you there?"

He paused, an unintelligable mutter chattered up his spine, the sound coming from one of the further rooms. Squinting a little, he saw a grey-ish light oozing from a slight crack under a closed door, closer than he had thought, on his right. The scratching sound got louder as he approached, and he found himself holding his breath as he rested his fingertips on the door, pushing slightly. It opened soundlessly and he heaved a sigh of release at the sight of Frodo's back, hunched over his writing desk before the window. There was no lamp in the room, or fire - and the window was a gaping maw of darkness - yet it was slightly lighter in the room than it had been in the hall. Almost as if the light were coming from Frodo . . .

Pippin shook his head, laughing a little. "Cousin!" he cried, striding forward and resting a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "A fine host you make. I've been calling and calling! I had to let myself in."

The scratching sound - Frodo's pen on the page - didn't stop; Frodo didn't even seem to notice his presence. Frowning, Pippin peered over his cousin's shoulder and onto the page.

"What are you writing?" - Nothing, it seemed . . .or at least nothing that Pippin could read. Blood-red characters covered pages upon pages of loose paper, older sheafs' ink darkened to a rusty brown or even black. The pen strokes were harsh slashes, and it seemed as if the ink had welled up from wounds in the paper rather than flowed from pen.

"Frodo...?" Pippin whispered again, taking a step back, and then the scratching stopped. Frodo straightened his back, then pushed his chair out, turning and rising all at once.

"My dear Pippin," he said, and held out his arms.

Pippin stumbled back in shock. Frodo's face was pale, pale to a grey and dull, his eyes sunken and bruised. His dark hair was limp, matted, filthy locks curling on his waxen forehead. He smiled at Pippin and the dry whiteness of his lips cracked, spilling blood dark and red over his chin and down his throat, onto . . .

. . . his chest, which wasn't bleeding at all but looked like it ought to be; gaping as if it had been hewn with an axe - or something without such a clean cut - then cracked open, emptied. The raw edges of the wound were black, and the tattered rags of Frodo's shirt - filthy with mud - fluttered around it as Frodo stepped forward. "Don't I get a hug from my favourite cousin?"

Pippin turned and fled, not able to tell if his eyes were open or closed from the darkness outside the room, not halting until he felt the slick gloss of Bag End's green-painted front door under his outstretched fingertips. He fumbled for a brief, frantic moment with the slippery brass knob, then wrenched it open and stopped, throwing his arm up to shield his eyes.

It was broad daylight outside, impossibly bright as if he were staring right into the sun, and Pippin heaved a sigh, stepping out onto the familiar path, keeping his gaze down and blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the new light.

"Hullo, Mr Pippin. Come to see Mr Frodo, have you?"

Pippin started and looked up, having to squint all over again. Through the minute, blurry crack of his eyelids he could see Sam, a smudge of sun-tinted hair and beaming face above the shifting grey of his elven-cloak.

_Frodo? There was something . . ._

"Er, yes Sam, I have."

"Well he's inside, but working in his study, mind you, so I don't know if you should be bothering him just yet." Sam turned away, walking a few paces away from the path then sinking to his knees in front of a tiny, wilted sapling.

"Oh . . ." Pippin said, somewhat distantly. _Something I ought to remember. . ._ He shook his head, stepping closer to Sam. "What are you doing?"

Sam looked up at him with a smile, seemingly unperturbed by the brilliance of the sun shining down on him. "Planting," he said simply, and turned back to the ground before him, starting to rip up the turf around the base of the shrivelled plant with his hands.

"Oh," Pippin said again, watching Sam's steady, rhythmic movements for a moment before turning to examine the rest of the garden. The only sound was the soft, rich rustle of earth in Sam's hands; no breeze stirred the verdant green leaves, no bird trill or cry broke the still air.

"Isn't it a little hot to be working in the garden today?" Pippin inquired, lifting a hand to both wipe the sweat off his brow and shield his eyes as he peered up at the glaring light of the sun . . .

_Where was the sun?_

"Here's a pretty thing," Sam murmured, and Pippin quickly glanced back down at him. In his earth-stained hands Sam held a heart, dark red and glistening.

"Where . . . where did you get that?" Pippin gasped, his breath quickening. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off it, and . . . he swore he saw it move, saw it beat and Sam's thumb moved over it quickly . . .

"Oh they're right hard to come by and that's the truth," said Sam, laying it reverently in the hole he'd dug at the base of the sapling. "But they do wonders for the garden."

He covered up the heart, smoothing the black earth back over the hole with broad sweeps of his hand then patting the raw spot affectionately. Even as he pushed himself back and rose, coming to stand by Pippin, something seemed to happen to the sapling. It seemed to tremble, as if a whisper of wind were rushing through it's wilted branches; even though Pippin's hair hung limp and undisturbed on his forehead.

"Sam, what--" he started to say, but Sam hushed him, not taking his eyes off the small plant as he lay a hand on Pippin's forearm. Pippin cried out in surprise and pain - the touch burnt like fire . . .

Yet all pain was forgotten as, with a dull moan, the sapling started to grow, at first a slow swelling of limbs, then the gentle yet inexorable emergence of leaves, thick and green and oily, forcing their way out of the now pristine white stems.

"Oh, I think it's going to blossom," Sam said softly as the tree thrust up far above their heads, and Pippin looked closer to see on the end of each skeletal branch a bud beginning to swell, then growing and blossoming into--

Fingers. Elegant, hobbit-sized fingers, with pale skin but nails bitten to the quick; each encircled by a ring of swollen gold . . .

****

"Pip."

"Merry," he gasped, coming suddenly awake.

"You were having another nightmare." He could hear Merry, feel Merry in the darkness, and reached up to where he knew Merry would be and wrapped arms around his neck, clutching desperately.

"I know, it was awful."

"Was it the troll again?"

Pippin shuddered, remembering other nightmares; a crushing weight, a foul smell . . .

"No, this was worse," he gasped, still unable to slow his panting breath, and buried his face in the crook of Merry's neck, the darkness there warmer, more familiar. "Don't ask me about it Merry, please," he said, almost a sob.

"My poor Pip," Merry murmured, sinking down into the bed beside Pippin and sliding his arms around his cousins shoulders. "You're as wet as the Brandywine. Want me to throw off the blanket?"

"No, but Merry--" Pippin hesitated, his back prickling with the thought of the expanse of darkness behind him. "Could you light a few candles?" he asked in a whisper.

"Of course," Merry murmured, and there was the sound of rustling bedclothes and the sudden coldness of loss against Pippin's side as Merry sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. He fumbled briefly on the bedside table, snapping a candle from it's puddle of melted wax, then padding to the still slightly-glowing embers of the fire.

"There, now," he said, the orange glow lighting up the familiar face from below. He smiled softly and made his way back to the bed, fingers glowing red as he cradled the fragile flame. Pippin smiled weakly in reply, the light - and the sight of Merry's face - reassuring enough to allow him to stretch out his cramped limbs. He smoothed the blankets over his chest, leaving his arms out to rest cooly above the coverlet, by his sides.

"You know," Pippin sighed, feeling an inexplicable pang at the thought that rose. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply as Merry leant across him to light the candle on the other side of the bed. "It wasn't that long ago that you would have teased me for being afraid of the dark."

Merry slipped back under the blankets again, close but not touching. He reached out a hand, intertwined his fingers with Pippin's. "It wasn't that long ago that you would have had nothing to be afraid of."

Pippin lay still and silent, allowing the slow, gentle caresses of Merry's hand on his to soothe him. His eyes ached to close, but the images that rose behind them were still too near, still too fresh.

"Merry," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" Merry sounded wide awake, despite his stillness and low, even breathing. The soft stroking didn't stop.

"Do you think Frodo has nightmares too?"

Merry rolled over again, propping himself up on one elbow and shifting his caresses from Pippin's hand to the side of Pippin's face, staring down into his cousin's eyes intently, his gaze sad and understanding.

"I don't doubt it," he whispered, and leant in a little closer to brush his lips against Pippin's, not so much of a press as a touch, light and unassuming, the shape of his lips not changing, though his breath quickened as Pippin lifted his own hands to rest against the nape of his cousin's neck.

"Merry--" he gasped, the beginning of a wail. "Touch me."

Merry's touch was more firm than tender - sliding Pippin's nightshirt up over his thighs and hips, chest, shoulders. More of an affirmation as he pressed his hands steadily - palm-flat - to the skin of Pippin's breast, sides, back. He gave a low whimper of his own as Pippin - breath rising once more - pulled his shirt up and over his head, before pressing their bare bodies together fervently.

It didn't take either of them long - they moved in thick, heavy slides and arches, their cries sparse and almost guttural. A meal eaten quickly, sensually, with no unneccessary chewing, generous mouthfuls swallowed whole but each savoured. Merry's hands were a welcome press against Pippin's back, and he locked his own arms about Merry's shoulders as they lay side by side in the sweaty tangle of sheets, held together and straining as if trying to melt, to _meld_ into one another.

And then Pippin wasn't sure they _weren't_ one another, and all else was forgotten in this declaration, this affirmation of _life_. And the knowledge that Merry was there, beside him.

"Can you sleep now, love?" Feeling rather than hearing Merry's panting breath on his ear.

"Yes."

Then nothing.

****

He was awakened again by a loud pounding sound. At first he though it was Merry's heart - his cheek pressed hotly against it - but the accompanying voice, deeper than it ought to have been, brought him well and truly out of his almost-awake limbo.

He peeled himself off Merry, rising dizzily from the bed and stumbling toward the doorway, grabbing a robe from the foot of the bed and fumbling with the tie around his waist.

"My dear Meriadoc!"

Pippin squinted out into the (late) morning sunlight, looking up . . . and then up still, to see the face of their early visitor.

"Gandalf!" he mumbled, tongue still thick with sleep but surprised nonetheless.

"Oh, it's you, Pippin!" Gandalf clapped him on the shoulder. "I thought the egg-yolk yellow was more your cousin's colour?"

Pippin glanced down at his - _Merry's_ \- robe and grimaced. "I'm afraid you've just woken us up, I'm sorry . . . But would you like some breakfast?" His stomach rumbled appreciatively at the suggestion, and he peered blearily past Gandalf into the September morning. "Although it seems to be about time for second breakfast." He beamed. "We'll have to make up for that, then! Come in!"

He turned again and shuffled back into the cool dimness of the house.

"I'm afraid I can't stay for very long," Gandalf said, his deep voice rumbling into the hall after Pippin. "Is Merry awake? I need to talk to you both for a moment."

"Not even for a bite to eat?" Pippin answered jokingly, but sobered when he turned to see the somber expression on the wizard's face.

"What's going on, Pip?" came the mumble from somewhere behind Pippin, then "Gandalf? Gandalf!"

"Merry." Gandalf smiled. "I'm glad you're both here. I--"

"Is that Shadowfax?" Merry cried in delight, waking up entirely as he trotted past the wizard towards the sleek grey beast cropping the grass in front of the house. "My my, but he seems hungry!" He rose from stroking the horse's nose (Shadowfax merely snorted, not distracted from the task at hand) and stretched, rubbing his belly. "Speaking of which . . ." he said, half to himself, then "Come in, Gandalf! I'll put on a pot of tea and some sausages. And bacon." He ambled back inside.

"Meriadoc, Peregrin, _really_, I can't thank you _enough_ for your hospitality, but--"

"Oh, think nothing of it! It's wonderful to see you again! Frodo will be overjoyed! Have you been to Bag End yet, or is this your first stop?" Merry continued amiably, pulling open curtains as he made his way through the house towards the kitchen.

"Merry, I think--" Pip began, frowning slightly and glancing up at Gandalf's increasingly impatient demeanor.

"You're right, of course, Pip - we'll need to have eggs as well. Did mother bring any with her when she visited yesterday?"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

Merry turned, his expression quizzical as he saw Pippin, hands on hips, glowering at him.

"Why cousin, whatever is the matter!?" Merry exclaimed. Pippin huffed, rolling his eyes, then dropped his hands to his sides and gave Merry an entirely different look.

"But some things never change, do they?" Pippin said softly, his voice at once tender and teasing.

Merry grinned, moving forward to embrace him. "Never," he murmured into Pippins hair.

Gandalf cleared his throat.

"It's good to see you are well," he said, strands of joyful laughter interwoven in his voice. "And there is nothing i would like more than to stay for second breakfast - and elevensies besides - but my visit must be short -- i have tidings that will interest you." He paused, and his next words were spoken with a thread of sadness. "Indeed, they concern you closely." The two hobbits looked at eachother, then at the wizard standing before them. "It's about Frodo."

 

_  
. . . Amidst his tears Pippin laughed. _

"You tried to give us the slip once before and failed, Frodo," he said. "This time you have nearly succeeded, but you have failed again. It was not Sam, though, that gave you away this time, but Gandalf himself!"

\- from Return of the King, book VI, chapter 9 ("The Grey Havens"), by JRR Tolkien.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/993.html#cutid1


End file.
